Page 40 of Perfectly Wrong

Sam’s hands were gentle but firm as he turned me around to face him. I stared at his chest, taking in the black shirt that clung to his frame. His fingers brushed my jaw, tilting my head up. His pupils were blown, and when our lips finally met, it felt like my whole world exploded.

The intensity between us was overwhelming, an undeniable force that pulled us together. I couldn’t fully comprehend my feelings for him; I loved him so much it ached. It was the kind of pain that gripped my soul, a relentless burn that spread wherever he touched me. It was a madness I’d never experienced in all my twenty-eight years of life. Nothing compared to what we’d shared over these past months.

Sam groaned, and I clung to him, my nails digging into his neck. He drove me insane—always. Crazy in love, crazy with anger, crazy with anxiety, just completely crazy. And I trusted him so deeply that I didn’t even hesitate to have sex in the company restroom because I knew he’d protect me from anything.

“God, Elena,” he murmured, unbuttoning my pants. “I’ve missed you so much.”

“I know,” I replied, and he smiled.

In one swift motion, Sam stripped me of my clothes, leaving me half-naked. “We have to be quick, Lena, but I promise I’ll make it up to you later.” Promises. We usually avoided them, but I definitely wanted him to keep that one.

He lifted me onto the sink counter, positioning himself between my legs. I hurriedly unbuttoned his shirt and tossed it aside as he fumbled with his pants. I wanted to kiss him, undress him, admire him, and have him inside me—all at once. And when he finally entered me, I bit down on his shoulder to muffle my moan.

It felt so right, it was almost wrong. We were made for each other, and I was convinced of that since the day we met at that coffee shop. Sam’s fingers dug into my waist as he moved, his rhythm urgent. The sensation of skin against skin was electrifying.

It didn’t take long before I was falling apart in his arms, and he kissed me deeply, his voice breaking as he called my name.

“You’re getting bolder,” he teased, his voice breathless. “First, skipping work, and now pulling me into a restroom for a quickie.”

“All your fault,” I laughed, resting my head against his chest. “You give me those puppy-dog eyes, and I can’t resist.”

“You’re trouble,” he murmured, biting my cheek lightly before pulling me into a tight embrace. I closed my eyes, content to just stay there, wrapped in his warmth.

“We need to talk.”

Sam kissed the top of my head. “I know. Come over to my place when you’re done here.”

I pouted. “Your mom won’t be there, right?” I asked, feeling silly, and he chuckled.

“No, Elena. After that day, she always asks before dropping by. I think you might have traumatized her.”

I looked into his eyes, and he held my face gently between his hands.

“Can I wait for you?”

“Always,” I whispered, pulling him in for another kiss.

We got dressed and left separately, taking different routes back to the office. I was floating on cloud nine. I’d just completed an incredible project, signed on for an even bigger one, and reconnected with Sam. Things couldn’t get any better. Well, maybe if I won the lottery and only worked for fun, donating all my earnings to charity, that would top it.

But I hadn’t been in my office for long before Jeremy summoned me urgently.

“What’s up, Jer?” I asked as I walked in, shutting the door behind me. He looked agitated, his expression tense.

“Elena, I’m going to be blunt because there’s no way around this. Is there something going on between you and Sam Martin?”

I blinked, trying to process his question. “What do you mean?” I needed time to think. Did someone see us coming out of the restroom? That was impossible; the hallway was empty.

“You know exactly what I mean, Elena,” he snapped.

“There’s nothing going on between us.”

Not good. My heart raced.

“Elena, for God’s sake, tell me what’s happening!” Jeremy insisted.

Since I stayed silent, Jeremy slid a sheet of paper across the desk. I picked it up, confused. Written in his awful handwriting were numbered lines, quotes that made no sense.

“What is this?”

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